


Serpens Sanguinis

by MelpomeneTears



Series: Relationships In Pieces [7]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Multi, vengeance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelpomeneTears/pseuds/MelpomeneTears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Any and all that attacked his family would find out exactly the kind of man Zevran Arainai really was.  Now that he has everything to live for he's more dangerous than ever and there are still parts of his heart that are as black as obsidian.</p>
<p>Zevran's life between the end of Relationships In Pieces III and when we meet him again in My Lioness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wounded Warrior

Zevran crouched on the outcropping of rock, watching his lovers below. The vibrant colors of the sunset lost on him as he thought over what he needed to do next. Trelain was strapped to his back, chubby fingers curling into Zev’s hair tugging it every now and then. His own hands were tacky from the blood drying on them.

His heart ran riot in his chest at his tumultuous thoughts. How could he leave them? It would be an agony to be alone again but he would not let this go unanswered. The Crows would learn to fear him as they had no other. They would tremble at his name as the streets of Antiva ran red with their blood.

But first…first he would find the treacherous Mac Tirs. He had been a fool not to go after them earlier, he’d let his fondness for Maric stop him from protecting his family. He would not make that mistake again. From this day forward, no matter what it took, he would keep his lovers safe, would keep his…son safe. There was no other word for the boy; he was as much Zevran’s as he was Alistair’s and Sareyna’s. 

Dropping down softly, Trelain giggling on his back, he loped back to the remnants of their camp, stopping quickly at the stream to clean himself off as best he could with the boy clinging to him. As he broke the tree line Sareyna’s head snapped up, a smile touching her lips when she spotted him.

“Everything’s packed and we’re ready to get going.” She held her hands out and he helped Trelain off his back and onto his mother’s hip.

“We should go then, put as much distance between us and this mess as we can before dark. I don’t want to make it easy for more Crows to find us.” He looked to the back of the cart but couldn’t see his beloved warrior from where he stood. “Any change?”

Her smile faltered, “No, I’m…I’m worried, the remedy you gave him doesn’t seem to be working. We have to find a healer Zev; he’s in a lot of pain.”

He stroked her cheek, “I’ll wake him and give him more. It won’t hurt him. I promise I won’t let anything happen to him. You just worry about where we go next.” 

They climbed into the cart and moved on their way, Sareyna driving with Trelain in a basket beside her, and Pentheryn lying on the baseboards at her feet sleeping heavily, recovering from his wounds. Menrva rode with Zevran in the back while he tended Alistair’s wounds and kept an eye on the horse tethered to the back of the cart. Time seemed to creep by slowly for Zevran and he could only imagine what it must feel like for Alistair.

Alistair was pale and sweating, his eyes roving around but not really seeing too much. Zevran checked his bandages again to make sure there was no fresh bleeding. “Tesoro, I need you to lift your head a little and drink some more of this.”

Slowly, Alistair’s eyes came into focus on Zev, “Tastes like shit.”

Zev chuckled, “I know, but drink it anyway.” He helped the warrior raise his head and poured the silvery green liquid down his throat. He reached for another flask and tipped it to the warrior’s lips. “One more, then you can sleep for a while.”

Alistair shuddered hard but eventually got his body under control enough to drink the reddish liquid in the second flask. As soon as Zevran laid his head back down the big man was unconscious. For hours he did nothing but watch the slow rise and fall of Alistair’s chest with his breaths, watched his body tremble and his face contort in pain even in sleep.

He forced himself to watch each wince, each shudder. Each would be remembered, and each would be paid back a thousand fold in blood. He would pluck the Crows feather by feather until they were bare and then he’d cut off the head and leave the carcass rotting in the sun. 

He pressed a soft kiss to Alistair’s forehead. “Pagheranno per farti male1, Tesoro. Lo guiro2." 

They’d been attacked in the night while they slept; confident no one knew where they were they left Pentheryn and Menrva as watch. The dogs had raised the alarm and had even taken down three of the Crows before Zevran and the others had made it out of the tent. Menrva, her fur matted with the blood of Crows, had managed to make it through the fight with only a few scratches. Zevran was grateful Sareyna had insisted on training Menrva to fight, even against his wishes.

Pentheryn hadn’t been quite as lucky, taking a blade to his hind quarters. Sareyna had cried out as if she had been the one stabbed when she saw Pen injured. Thankfully, the cut was fairly clean and there was no poison. Her hound would recover.

They had nearly lost Alistair. He stayed to protect Trelain and ended up surrounded by Crows looking to make a name for themselves. By the time the fight was over he had more than a dozen stab wounds all carrying Crow poison and his leg had been broken only inches below the pelvis. Zevran had no idea how the man had not only remained standing but had taken out thirteen Crows by himself. They lay around him in a circle like broken dolls.

With all of his weight on one leg he had given the two of them a small smile as they returned to camp. “All dead?”

Sareyna had nodded, “All dead.”

“Good,” and then his eyes had rolled back and he had passed out. Crumpling to the ground into a puddle of blood beside the basket where their son lie. Sareyna, by all accounts not a woman prone to hysteria, shrieked and ran to him. Zevran checked Trelain over quickly before pulling open his pack and fishing out a stoppered bottle.

The silvery green liquid inside, something he had hoped to never need again, a remedy against the crow poison. It wasn’t a cure; it was just the closest thing to it that existed. He roused Alistair long enough to pour it down his throat followed quickly by a healing potion and even murmured a quick prayer to himself for good measure.

Alistair, his Tesoro, was a strong man, with a strong heart. If anyone could pull through this it was him, but there was such a lot of poison in his system. They had moved Alistair into the back of their cart with difficulty, at his size it was difficult to get him lifted and into the cart without injuring him further.

Once he was settled Sareyna told him to take Trelain for a walk while she cleaned up and packed everything up. She didn’t want the boy around all that death. He slipped the child onto his back and watched as Sareyna went to Pentheryn, eyes red rimmed but no tears falling. How he loved her, his Querida, his woman, his miracle.

The Crows would answer for her pain. They would answer for every one of Alistair’s wounds, for every minute he suffered. They would answer for daring to come after his child. 

For now he would have to be patient. It might take weeks for Alistair to recover completely and there was no way he was leaving before Alistair was back on his feet.

 

 

1 They will pay for hurting you.  
2 I swear it.


	2. A Lost Hero Mourns

The air was warm, the scent of jasmine tickling his nose with the slight breeze. Perched on the roof he breathed deep, pulling the perfumed air into his lungs. Dawn was nearing and a quiet peace settled over him. The first of his tasks was done.

The mantle of assassin had slipped back over him with ease.

The window had been left open to let in the scented breeze, just as it was every night. Without a whisper of sound he had slipped inside once the ice queen had fallen asleep. The woman’s face had been beautiful as she slept surrounded in hues of blue and he saw no reason to wake her. His blade plunged between her ribs and into her heart, snuffing out her life before her cerulean eyes could even flutter open, easy, quick.

He pushed the bedroom door open slowly, not surprised to find the fire still going strong in the hearth. Rough hewn logs made up the walls and a hard wooden chair sat in front of the fire with a man sitting astride it staring into the flames. He didn’t move as Zevran entered the room. . He did not turn to look, did not fidget but sat quietly waiting for his death. The assassin almost admired him.

“So she is dead then?” The deep voice flat, seemingly emotionless.

“She is.” His heart beat a slow and steady rhythm in his chest. Everything: sounds, scents were sharper and crisper. The shadows whispered to him. 

“Thank you for making it quick. I suppose I will not fare quite so well.” His eyes still on the fire, the first flicker of emotion in his voice.

Anger burned in Zevran but calm had become a second skin to him after years of training with the Masters of Antiva. “Not by half.” His eyes kept scanning the room, making sure they were alone. Though his anger was buried inside of him, glossed over by the calm that killing always brought, he had not forgotten why he had come.

Long moments stretched out between them, neither speaking. The assassin took his time watching the other man’s calm slip away bit by bit. At first he just closed his eyes and a heavy sigh escaped his dry, papery lips. A few minutes later his breath hitched. Grief settled over him slowly by degrees.

“Just kill me already, what are you waiting for?” The anger tried desperately to hide his failing resolve.

The assassin remained silent stalking around the room watching, waiting.

He held on for a long time, minutes slipped by into what seemed hours before he cracked, great wracking sobs shaking his large frame. An unearthly howl issued from his lungs as he pulled at his hair. His chair cracked under his clenching fists as tears ran in rivulets down his weathered face. “My sweet girl, oh my darling girl I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The assassin leapt and settled himself on top of a set of shelves peering down at the man as he quaked and sobbed. A once great man reduced to sobbing brokenly like a child. The assassin felt nothing, not pity and not satisfaction.

Bleary eyed, the man finally looked up and wiped the tears from his aging face. His eyes were red rimmed and the skin around them was darker than the assassin remembered. He took a deep breath and stood squaring his shoulders.

The assassin smiled a little, the man was ready to face his death.

Finally, the head turned, long black hair looking ragged and blue eyes that had once been sharp now looked dull and sunken. “Will you let me see the face of the serpent sent to take my life?” His voice was clear and strong now.

The assassin hopped down from the shelves into the light of the fire and slid back his hood revealing his face to the man who would meet his end at his hands. Ice blue eyes drank him in and his own amber stared back. And though he was calm, he knew that his anger, his rage burned in his eyes now. His fingers itched for his dagger but he held off, there was plenty of time for that. This man would pay in blood for the pain he had brought to Zevran and those he loved.

The man did not look surprised and gave a faint nod. “The past haunts me, I see.”

“It often does.” He moved back into the shadows.

“And what of them, do they yet live?” The man’s voice betrayed him; he was looking for something to hold on to.

“They live.” His calm was shaken a bit as anger pushed at him to hurt this man who wished harm on those he loved, but with a few slow breaths the calm slipped over him again.

Loghain cocked his head a bit, “So it’s true then. You love her. How interesting. So will you take my head and bring it to her? Or is it him? I’d heard he’d taken an elven lover. Are you the Bastard Prince’s plaything?”

Zevran watched him but didn’t bother to respond. Loghain seemed to have become bored with his own taunts and looked back into the fire, eyes becoming unfocused. Shadows licked up the walls and Zevran slipped back into them, more comfortable there than in the light.

“I underestimated that boy and the Cousland girl. A farm boy twice cast aside and raised in the Chantry. How was I to know that he had his father’s spirit? I suppose after all these years I forgot that I too was once a farm boy.

“And her? I still cannot understand her. Brilliant to be sure, most Cousland’s were. Vicious, you know by now that nobles as far away as Antiva speak of what she did to Rendon Howe in horrified whispers. Not that he didn’t deserve it. Yet, I could not find one person who met her during the Blight who didn’t adore her.” He turned and gave Zevran a bitter smile, “Not even her assassin. So what shall it be, poison?” The ice blue eyes followed him easily through the shadows.

“I thought I might take a more hands on approach.” He circled closer, stalking his prey.

“You plan to make me scream then? I believe you will be disappointed little snake.” He pushed the chair back with his foot making more room for himself. The man’s eyes searched the dark.

“I have no desire to hear you scream. I just want you to sing.” The assassin launched himself at the man’s back and pinned him to the ground holding a knife, gleaming in the firelight, at his throat.

The man smiled raggedly, not fighting back. “And so a golden serpent brings down the Hero of River Dane.”


End file.
